Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Nervous and ungainly—the small boynevertheless liked to imagine himself—a naturalborn runner.Running upand running back downagain—faster and faster—all to get betterand better,so he thoughtat being superior at running faster.Until—one day herealized he'd made such unprecedented stridesin that department,that he could no longer detect anynotable difference—between those instances when each ofhis two feet struck earthand the onesin betweenwhen they didn't;

and all this, of course began—to make the little man quite nervous all over-againthat his keel had become so perfectly even—as to be boring.

Monday, December 29, 2014

Of all of the kissesshe'd ever daredslip him—this onewas by some measure—the cruelestas it seemed—almost perverselyto do the mostgood for that sickness which throttled him—thatthere is no knowledge,only a littleglimmer;a sympathy for her intelligence—as confusion and complexityare eachdissolved slowly,gradually,and easily—into the very same simplicity feeblycalled—sky.

Saturday, December 27, 2014

So there you go—not even terriblyunceremoniously—out there,and thereforestraight-up after cagey oldH.D. Thoreau—who sauntered alonepurposefully,and never to actually get to some sort of holy land—but rather, only to go there;whereas—you,on the other hand,can't helpbut detect more oftenloneliness—and fairlyacutelyat that—because half of your walksstill gettallied as—the whole entire goddamn walk back.

Friday, December 26, 2014

Day after all the red and green—unseasonably warm—sheen of pinkand white and yellow neopreen winkingtimid—but characterisitcally up at—keenglint of men hikingpast her suanteringmom—and each of herwobbly knees knockingall the kinks from their—shiny new Hello Kitty roller skates.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

If you think about it—your pecious mind is a lot like a diamond—terse,sharp,fiercepointed, andclear—and lustrous,the way itelicitssuch spectacle—from its array of multiple interdependent planes conjoining; although—if you think about it further—only in the presence of lightdoes that happen—and again;onlyafter considerable effort on behalf of a certain well-paid artifacer—who sits thereand does this sort of thing,over and over again,all day—for a living.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

In one last all-out effortto supplant himself,he decided simplyto sit—and sit, and sit, and sit there—unimpressed;sitting, and so, sitting and sitting—and so-on—sitting eventually so severelythat stiff, bone-knitting boredom began to set in.But then, just as the thickness of the feeling threatened to usurp and unseat him—a thing happened; and kind of thin coolingstream of aesthetic appreciation began to leach and leap up from deep within him—and his boredom became so precious and particular to him,that he realizedhe bore itlike some—new credential. And so—the man leapt up from his seated position just asquick but reluctant-ly—feeling ultimately proud—that is to say—utterly defeated.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Even at the most bankrupt of bus stops—folks still gather;all kinds—some clutching soft cupsof what looks to be decent hot stuff—while otherswith their roughhands rubbing their charming long faces—cluck backand forth—incomplicated tongues,but not without a detectable—sweet few notes of resignation—on their breathsregarding the weakly abided rudenessof—our weather.

truly have a mind of winter—to regard the snowman—rotundly re-screenprinted herehere and here—in perfect white pantone with bits of sticksfor arms—stretched so wide! in their otherwisequizzically unaccompanied fete of saturnalia—and not to be—duly impressed by the sound—of round vowelsbouncingmagicallyoff the publication—to heraldinside of one's personal mind—the sheerjubilation of the greatphrase—Free Layaway.

Monday, December 1, 2014

Although adrift—and feeling so skinnyin the big cityin the rough draftof yet another year of big wind—which is currently howling in—from each of the lost directionson a bleary and frostbitten sketch of raw morning;you're—frankly just feelingstuck in this moment;it can just be so freezing cold to notice—how much likethe restof your hapless kind you actually areor—might well be—if onlyyour goddamned carenginewould consider turning over.

Dan Smart is a poet, writer, and musician who currently works as News Editor at online music magazine Tiny Mix Tapes, volunteer editor at nonprofit writing and tutoring center 826CHI, and producer/engineer at ECHO/NORMAL recording studio in Chicago, IL. He received his BA in Creative Writing from Illinois Wesleyan University in 2006, where he has since returned to guest-lecture on poetry on several occasions. Publications include The Los Angeles Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, The Legendary, Cease Cows Magazine, Red Fez, Hooligan Magazine, and poetry/criticism blog Structure And Surprise. His daily-poetry blog, Rhythm Is The Instrument, has been active since 2013 and presently contains over 1,900 works.